Bruises
by Joker'sOnlyFear
Summary: CHAOS. Violence. Torture. It's the Joker at his best - er, worst - and Jonathan Crane and one unlucky henchman are dragged along for the ride. Post-TDK. MY FIRST MULTI-CHAPTER FIC! FINALLY COMPLETE!
1. UPS Man

_Author's Note: What do you say you and I, dear reader, start off with a clean slate? Let us pretend that the Joker does not yet meet Dr. Jonathan Crane/Scarecrow until this particular encounter, which takes place. . .oh, I'd say about three months or so after _The Dark Knight_. For my previous readers, try to wipe out anything you have "learned" about them from your mind - if you can, that is hahaha. Those who have not read any of my stories will not need to "freak out" - you should be able to read it by itself without any difficulty, as this has no relation to any of my previous fics. It goes against what I may have said before - but, whatever. As the extremely-overused Joker quote from _The Killing Joke_ says, "If I'm going to have a _past_, I prefer it to be _multiple choice_!" _

This _part of my first multi-chapter story, at least, is told from the second-person POV (because I love to use it so much) of a considerably-important henchman, whose obnoxiously-long name I will apologize for in advance - I was having a LITTLE too much fun looking up Russian names on the Internet ;)._

_I'll admit, the beginning _does_ start out a little slow because I have to give a bit of background for the henchman and set the scene and stuff - but it'll pick itself up eventually, I promise._Rain.

* * *

It comes down in buckets, pattering fast - _plip-plop plip-plop_ - cold and heavy and hard, down and down and down from the raging tempest that has seemed to overcome the dark clouded sky - a scorned goddess unleashing her utmost fury upon the vast metropolis. The droplets are huge - some even nearing the size of golf balls - instantly exploding upon their inevitably fatal contact with the broad flat roofs of the city's most towering skyscrapers, each prism bursting open and blossoming into a million tiny shards of pure mirror-crystal, each parent drop willingly sacrificing itself with the shared single thought that this next generation, this new life, will bring hope to the earth they plummet toward and break upon. But this tumultuous barrage of procreation in fact will prove more harm than good: the water-children merge with each other, bleeding quickly down the towers' outer walls - which are merely multi-paned sheets of tinted reflective window-glass - to the dangerous streets below, causing what little vibrancy the albeit vociferous city had to run and smear and melt into an endless pool of dreary gray silence that will soon flood and destroy absolutely everything in its path if left unchecked.

- - -

Undeniably bored, you hunch damply behind the wheel of an old, I've-seen-better-days type black Lincoln - stolen, naturally - whose annoyingly muffler-lacking motor idles obnoxiously without pause at top volume, heard over even the relentless drumming of the constant deluge upon the car's roof; you manage to feel slightly self-conscious about the noise even though the shady street corner has shown no signs of life since you had parked there nearly two hours earlier - probably because of the _wonderfully_-morbid weather, you had figured (of course showing heavy sarcasm at the "wonderful" part), and figure still.

And you never suspect for an instant that the drastic events you will witness later tonight will change your life forever.

You are known solely as Lefty, the proudly-born nickname earned for the killer pitch you had delivered to many an unlucky batter with that dominant hand during your not-so-long-ago high school baseball days - but who would _really_ want to be called Vyacheslav Grigori Talik Artem Boris Kandichev IV anyway?

Just another faceless thug of the common variety - though you are considerably leaner and more wiry than your burly counterparts tend to be - _never_ identified suitably by name to your employers. It's always "_You!_ Go do this!" or "Hey, meathead - go do that!" (the latter of which you consider a great insult to your more-than-passable intelligence).

As if they could even remember your proper title anyway.

There is a sharp _crack!_ as a fork of charged particles splits the night in two; you flinch violently and shrink away into the back of your seat. You had been struck by lightning while "hiding" from a thunderstorm - thinking you were safe beneath the large ancient oak as you gazed up at the sky in fearful awe - when you were barely three years old, knocking you unconscious; another flash merely seconds later and the rotting wood of the very tree above you was ablaze. You were later informed that your father had sprinted out of the house (your parents had not notice you slip outside to play only five minutes earlier), swept you up and laid you down on the sitting room couch - in your mother's gentle care - before taking the garden hose to the flames. In the end, you were left with a permanent streak of white in you hair, on your left temple, a terrible headache that sometimes comes and goes not quite unlike a migraine, and an enduring wariness toward most electrical appliances - though the poor tree, having been reduced to mere ash and cinders before your father could save it, was obviously not so lucky. Even now, barely twenty-five years later, the effects of the sky's strange power to produce _very_ painful shocks is one that you still find slightly intimidating.

Okay, _more_ than slightly.

You pull a small black comb - a gift from your hairstylist-and-once-part-time-whore girlfriend (hey, if you need money you gotta do what you gotta do, right?) - from the left breast pocket of your shirt with trembling fingers, spit on it, and once again commence the routinely futile attempt to flatten your unruly (and currently fully-saturated) bangs - those wavy curls that stick up and then curl down and fluff back up again at the tips; after several minutes of this you finally sigh in defeat and slip the pick back into your pocket again. You subsequently snatch up the soggy black ballcap (with the United Postal Service logo on the front) sitting on the passenger's seat beside you and slap it unceremoniously on your head with a very wet _squelch_, tugging the bill down low over your clear brow - instantly ruining your meticulous handiwork. Even Sandy is unable to fathom as to exactly why you do that - smarten yourself neatly and then mess it all up again - maybe the naughty hairdresser part of her has begun to rub off on you through your close relationship. In any case, you have eventually come to admit even to yourself that this has become more and more of a nervous habit, ever since you began your work as hired muscle - and _especially_ since you had found out you would be working for _him_.

It had started with a tragedy. Your occupation. That evening you had been coming home from a pleasant dinner-and-a-movie date with Sandy - only to find that your parents' mansion (Father and Mother had been Duke and Duchess, respectively, back in "the old country" before you were born - and before they were overthrown by a vicious dictator and forced to move over to America [you remember with a smile that you had always served as family translator from the time you learned English in school] - though not without a very small fortune) had been burnt to the ground, smoke and ashes scattered everywhere. Only the rear wall and the chimney had remained, a brief but terribly meaningful message - scrawled in huge uneven lettering - written in your parents lifeblood (or was it deathblood?) upon the crumbling brick.

HA HA HA

The next morning you had received a call ordering you to your current place of employment - well, current until yesterday.

You glance upward to check your reflection in the rearview mirror; the looking-glass is spattered with rain, blown inside the car by the occasional gust of wind, water overflowing from the two-inch long hairline crack spidering diagonally southward from the upper right-hand corner. The late-evening sky had been a clear navy blue only an hour ago; but then ominous gray-violet storm clouds had decided to sweep in, soaking you completely and turning your bones to ice as you wait for a manager whom you are beginning to think is never going to show up, growing more stiff and cold by the minute. And to top it all off the goddamn windows are stuck, rolled all the way down, and won't budge one shitting inch more either way - which is how you'd been drenched in the first place.

_Fucking Gotham weather!_

Scowling in irritation at the proverbial rainforest the damned crime-ridden city has seemed to become, you fog the mirror over with your breath and clear it with the sleeve of your black nylon jacket - wiping in squeaky little circles - finally able to catch the most fleeting glimpse of your reflection before the incoming precipitation smears it again, causing the light skin, hair so pale that bleaching it wouldn't have made one ounce of an impression whatsoever, and misty bottle-green eyes to run in strange rivulets down the speculum, melting - bearing an altogether creepy resemblance to your new boss's infamous visage.

Only yesterday you had been working through your eighth month for your first manager: the pompous, insanely-rich and overweight bulk of the short-statured, raptor-esque Oswald Chesterfield Cobblepot, whose immensely out-of-date sense of style - black-and-white suits seeming to belong more within a romantic Jane Austen novel than on this decidedly snooty figure - only enhances his physical resemblance to the round, flightless Antarctic bird for which the balding, dark-eyed, beak-nosed entrepreneur is nicknamed.

The Penguin.

But then it became known that _he_ was on a thug-hunt - and Cobblepot, who had long ago tired of watching you fuss with your hair (mainly because he had received a shock: _someone actually preened themselves more times in one _hour_ than he did in a whole _day), literally jumped at the chance to redirect you without even so much as a disparaging sniff to the madman's employ; you still feel as if you had been traded as one would a pack of set of baseball cards.

Well, at least _this_ deck - if only now - is considered high-quality enough to work for the most-wanted and ruling criminal in Gotham City.

Out of nowhere you suddenly remember you have neglected to unlock the rear doors of the aged vehicle (you are desperately hoping that _he_ will not choose to ride shotgun, though you had not locked that particular door just in case: you absolutely did _not_ want the first impression you presented to be that you were trying to challenge _his_ authority by "letting" him into the vehicle - which was certainly not what you were hoping to achieve); you turn around and reach over the back of your seat to flip the stiff switch near the inner door handle with a dull _clunk_ - the once-elegant (in an admittedly _large_ sort of way) Mafia-style Town Car is so old you are forced to release the catch by hand. You spare a quick glance to check that the passenger sitting in the backseat diagonally across from you with his head tilted back onto the cracked tan leather is indeed still unconscious before you face front again.

Under strict - and thankfully final - orders from Cobblepot (whose position over you did not truly end until he had abruptly broken the cell phone connection without even confirming whether you had comprehended the given information or not - Penguin was simply passing on a message from _him_, so it didn't really matter to the asshole birdbrain if you were "disposed of" for failing to comply with instructions properly), you had gone to the Elizabeth Arkham Asylum for the Criminally Insane only this afternoon. Having efficiently disguised yourself as a UPS worker - knocking a real employee who had appeared to be about your size unconscious for the uniform and then "borrowing" one of those infamously bulbous trucks - and having armed yourself with an empty cardboard box and a clipboard (stuffed with fake "sign here, please" forms) and pen, you had been permitted to enter by the dull-witted guards after presenting the excuse that you had a special delivery that you were supposed to hand personally to the chef (you knew far better than to try and give it to the head physician himself - you had heard of what the deadly "medication" he administers to his patients is capable of) - _and_ after you were literally forced to swear on your mother's unfortunately occupied grave (bless her soul) that you wouldn't cause any "disturbances" among the inmates.

You had evidently succeeded in you pitiful - okay, _very reluctant_ - attempts to "flirt" with the head cook, a crotchety albeit easily-flattered old hag whose warped and sagging appearance appeared to merely enhance her dragon-like authoritative demeanor (despite her small stature), for she had taken the small glass vial you had given her and had promised to "discreetly" pour the translucent liquid contents into your passenger's water glass at dinner without question.

After picking up your captive you had swapped the truck for your Lincoln back in the parking lot of the Penguin's posh office complex; you will be needing something a _mite_ more inconspicuous (though perhaps in the case of the Town Car "inconspicuous" is a bit of a stretch - just a bit) for the services you will perform tonight - to say nothing of future jobs if all goes well - and you would have needed to eventually move the Town Car nevertheless because now you officially don't work there anymore.

Let Penguin's goons worry about the van - you never gave a shit about them anyway.

And then, once again merely following instructions, you had ended up here.

One thing is undeniable: if he ever comes out of this alive, Dr. Jonathan Crane will be certain to inspect his food and drink for hidden contaminates from now onward. (Unbeknownst to you, Crane never had to double-check what he consumed before because of his Scarecrow persona's _fearsome_ reputation over his staff and the "patients" at Arkham - one merely had to _look_ at Crane wrong to receive a lethal dose of his patented terror-inducing toxin.)

Without warning a flash of purple fabric is reflected for a fleeting instant in the driver's side mirror, snapping you out of your reverie as the left rear door of the vehicle is spontaneously yanked open; your stomach flips as a sodden - though ultimately still very deadly - figure scrambles into the backseat, the entryway he has just crawled through clicking shut behind him.

You goggle openmouthed in horror at _his_ blurred reflection in the rearview mirror, struggling to get over the shock of actually regarding him face-to-face (well, face-to-duplicate image, anyway); _everyone_ has seen him on the ten-o'clock news, obviously, but to do so in person proves far more terrifying.

Morbid brown eyes meet the likeness of your fearful green ones.

"_Drrrrriii-vuh_," the Joker snarls.

The next moment you blink, the sound of the deep yet whining voice seeming to break through the cloud of fear that has fogged your mind, and shut your mouth; the clown throws a quick glance over his shoulder, out the rear window. Hysterical giggles - which you sense are coming from _him_ - influence icy chills to skitter up your spine as you switch the gears from NEUTRAL into DRIVE, completely lacking regard for Gotham's never-enforced-so-who-really-gives-a-damn-anyway safety laws - receiving a ticket for "conveniently forgetting" to wear your seat belt is currently the least of your worries.

Quiet sniggers morph horribly into high-pitched shrieks of maniacal laughter as you stomp on the gas and pull the Lincoln away from the curb in a horrendous squeal of tires burning rubber.

A sinister leer finally greets you.

"Hello, _Vyacheslav-vuh_."

* * *

_Oooh - CLIFFY! (If I may borrow a term from a reply I had received for a review I had given - thanks in advance, that is positively _ingenious_.) Where are they going? How does the Joker know Lefty's real name - or at least part of it, anyway? What part does Crane have in all this? You'll just have to read on to find out! The other chapters won't be as dull as this one, I promise. Will update ASAP. _

_To a certain reviewer-friend of mine: the "good part" is up next! ;)_


	2. Getting To Know Each Other

_Author's Note: Switches from Lefty's POV to third within this actual chapter because much of the events cannot be accurately described from his POV alone. This picks up right after a scene change - nothing really happens on the way to getting where they're going, which you'll find out in a second, so I really didn't write on the car ride. Oh, and for those of you looking for a more detailed description on what Crane and the Joker look like: I saved it for this chapter because that's just how it fit into the storyline. I do play around a bit with TDK quotes in this one - sorry to those who don't like it, but I'm not being punished for using them, and they just _make_ the story, y'know? So. . .yeah. Take that!_

* * *

- - -

Gotham Fifth National Bank is one of the smaller counting houses in the crowded metropolis - yet it is still quite respectable in size nonetheless, for this is Gotham City, where if it's bigger, it's better. The mob bank is fairly new compared to its competitors, having been built only a year ago; its beige stuccoed exterior has already been entirely blackened from all the soot emanating from the assorted factories nearby, the dark grit filling in the ridges in the plaster.

The clown's presence within the vehicle must have kicked some fearful adrenaline into the old clunker, for it had driven incredibly smoothly and impossibly fast for a car of its size.

It is still raining when you turn into the wide expanse of black pavement-tar stretching before the building, receiving no comment from your employer as you disregard the somewhat fluorescent yellow place-marking lines and simply park diagonally across two of the spots in the corner of the lot farthest from the bank - you are all-too eager to cease driving in this absolutely-horrendous-for-whomever-is-operating-the-vehicle type weather.

You remove the keys from the ignition and stuff them into the pocket of your coffee-hued trousers - you had grown quite attached to the little brown uniform - as you turn halfway round in your seat and look back at the homicidal clown expectantly for further instructions.

He is staring at the young doctor - who can't be more than twenty-three years old - with an expression akin to an almost obsessive curiosity on his face.

Suddenly he blinks and looks over at you as if you had pointedly cleared your throat in order to garner his attention - but of course in reality you had done no such thing.

His eyes drift over your shoulder; he nods at what you turn to see outside the windshield is a small white birch standing on the strip of grass lining the parking lot, right next to the car, its branches bowing under the heavy precipitation.

"Go on and, and, uh. . .wait over _there-ruh_," the Joker orders, running a thick wet tongue over red painted lips. _Lick_. "I'll, I'll, uh - _wake him up-puh_." _Lick_.

An uneasy sense of foreboding coils deep within the pit of your stomach.

You glance at Crane again. He is thin, skeletal and gangly, his two-piece jet-black suit and crisp white dress shirt hanging loosely off of him - _his _(black) socks_ probably pool down around his ankles: bet he needs to wear _garters_ just to hold 'em up_, you think with an internal smirk - the entire arrangement strikes an odd resemblance to a variation on the typical cornfield scarecrow. Crane is clean-shaven and deathly pale, his long-fingered, prominently-knuckled hands - with their ragged lengths of habitually-bitten fingernails - like a pair of ivory spiders attached to slender bony wrists, his hair tousled and brown. His cheekbones are high, prominent - hinting at distant Irish roots - his pale rose-colored lips voluptuous yet not quite full, his brows thin, his nose small and delicate, his lashes long and black.

"Poor little faggot," you whisper - for that particular sexuality is what his decidedly feminine appearance has suggested in your mind. In fact, if not for his prominent Adam's-apple and the strong masculinity of his angular jaw, it is certainly possible that, with the removal - and addition - of a few certain gender-defining features, the doctor very well could at a distance be mistaken for a woman.

Your employer flicks his eyes pointedly from you to your ordered destination again - and with that you get out of the Town Car, instantly swamped by the continuous deluge as you shut the door behind you (though unfortunately on your part you will still be able to see what is about to occur clearly through the aforementioned rolled-down front windows) and quickly take those five or so steps to stand under the meager shelter of the pitiful little tree, water dripping from the brim of your hat as you hold your jacket closed to protect the definite bulge of the Smith & Wesson pressed unwisely close to your chest beneath it.

Later you'll wonder why you did not interfere, why your merely stood there gawking like some voyeuristic idiot - but then you'll realize you'd have been unable to turn away, even if you'd wanted to.

And all because of the damn sticky Gotham mud busily adhering itself to the soles of your work boots.

You turn around just in time to see the Joker lean over Crane and deal him a sharp blow to his left cheek with a gloved fist, up near his left eye.

- - -

Jonathan's head is throbbing when he regains consciousness - throbbing as though his highly intellectually-skilled brain has morphed into a large aorta that pulsates within the planes of his skull like a second heart, as they beat in the place of the critical circulatory muscle for small species such as the common earthworm.

He feels disoriented, as if the position of his body has quite recently and quite quickly been changed, from sitting up perhaps to now lying down upon what feels like the worn leather backseat of a rather large and spacious car.

Cautiously he takes a quick mental inventory: nothing seems to be broken and only his cranium pains him -

A soporific.

_That's_ how he had ended up in this drowse-like state of emerging from unconsciousness.

The knowledge gives him some small comfort, somehow - one of the many endless questions buzzing about within his mind like so many irritating flies has been solved.

But where is he?

And to whom does that presence he senses to be hovering predatorily over him belong?

As if yearning desperately to go off on their own and search for the answers themselves - and seeming to do so of their own accord, though Crane's sight will still be yet blurred - his eyes open blearily.

The threatening presence emits a soft involuntary gasp, despite itself.

Jonathan's eyes are not eyes but in fact deep twin pools of magnificent cerulean ice. Each iris is not mere pigment but a ring of blue precious stone, many-faceted sapphires caramelized into two identical and equally beautiful puddles. Impossibly narrow segments a shade or two darker than the surrounding crystal reach like rays of the sun from the perfectly circular pupils to the matching rings on the outer edges of the irises, each infinitesimal slit taking in what little light there is to be had so that Crane's eyes glow like a pair of ultraviolet fireflies, absolutely blinding in their brilliance.

And then those shining orbs widen almost comically in horror as Jonathan flinches at the sudden shock of the coming-into-focus of a most terrible face.

Greasy hair cascades in layers of loose ringlets to somewhat frame the terror-inducing visage, and has been dyed an oily green - though untidily so, so that bits of dirty-blond pigment show through, particularly at the roots. Chalky white foundation is smeared unevenly over his face. Twin blossoms of pitch-black charcoal mushroom out like nuclear explosion-clouds from a pair of absolutely depthless brown eyes - eyes which one could very easily become lost in as one is drawn into his methods, his ways.

And then there are the scars, the twin ragged lines of puckered skin that pull at the corners of his mouth and curve upward along his cheeks in a leering smile. Even the garnet lipstick smeared over his mouth and the grotesque tortured lesions cannot hide cross-hatch indentations made by the fishing line used to sew up the mauled flesh, forming large chalk-white x's in his skin; impossibly tiny drops of blood weep from them. (He will later tell Crane that the fishing line is new: his facial muscles had become terribly weak from the trauma they had endured, forcing him to re-close the recurrently-unsealing wounds again and again - and smiling so hard, as he tends to do, doesn't help either.)

But as scared as he is of the undeniably dangerous presence leaning over and on top of him, with its lean muscular torso, its very waist between his own narrow thighs, gloved hands on the seat to either side of him - his feelings of terror increasing with each passing moment - Jonathan also finds the presence strangely. . ._fascinating_.

Who is he, really?

What - or who - had caused him to become this way?

Crane's mind is already forming over a whole medical file's worth of questions that he will never get the chance to ask - at least, not in this moment.

A sudden rush of adrenaline and something else he has never felt before causes his heartbeat and feelings of fear to quicken as the lunatic leans in closer, the tips of their noses almost touching.

And Jonathan is also more than slightly disturbed to find that the more frightened of the madman he grows, the tighter over his own body the crotch of his black suit trousers seems to become.

Moist tongue flickering out over his scars, the insane clown grins suddenly, lips pulling away from yellowed and rotting teeth, cheeks tugging back at the abrasions, causing them to stretch horribly in some places and to crease and bend, fold in on themselves in others - threatening to split his face open again and cause impossible amounts of hot sticky wetness to flow down his cheeks and drip from his jaw in a ghastly waterfall of crimson blood.

"Hello there." _Lick_.

For a moment, Crane is frozen in both terror and awe, and has another strange thought: he could watch the clown lick his lips all day.

"_You_." It is all Jonathan's brain can think of for him to say.

"Me." The Joker giggles - and promptly slaps Jonathan across the face.

Hard.

Jonathan cries out as pain erupts in his eye and cheek. Black spots dance in front of his baby blues; his ears ring discordantly as he feels blood begin to dribble down his chin from a fresh cut, having accidentally bitten his lower lip when the Joker smacked him. He is surprised at just how much the blow stings - but he is even more shocked at how he is much more emotionally wounded by the clout to the head, more so emotionally than physically.

As if in that one abusive gesture he has been rejected.

But then Joker rocks back slightly and there is the sound of some unidentifiable material being rent in two - and suddenly there is a wide length of metallic gray duct tape over Jonathan's mouth; he begins to tremble and hyperventilate, breath whistling in and out of his thin flared nostrils as his lungs expand and contract in the sudden natural panic the body goes into when its airways are blocked.

"Wanna know _how_ I got these _scars?"_

Jonathan _does_ want to know, very much - but he becomes reasonably distracted from the beginnings of his affirmative nod of response when the Joker withdraws a switchblade from just one of the many pockets lining the interior of his deep violet trench coat, flicks it open with a soft but deadly _click_, and begins to stroke Jonathan's cheek almost tenderly, oh-so lightly with the blade so that it does not even mark the skin.

Jonathan whimpers in terror and something else as the crotch of his trousers becomes tighter yet.

"When I was younger, I was. . ._bullied_ in school - _like you_ - by a boy who tells me. . .I _alienate_ myself too much. Who tells me. . .I need to _smile_ more. Who gets into _fights_. . .and thinks he's king-of-the-hill because _he never gets in trouble for 'em_." _Lick_. "And one day, he comes after me _again_ - and, and by this point I've decided I've had enough." _Lick_. "I've decided to show him that _he can't hurt me_ - and that he _really_ needs to be _punished_ with getting away with his little reign of terror for so long." _Lick_. "_So_ - he and his little, uh, _goons_ watching - I climb up into this tree bordering the schoolyard where he can see me _really_ well, and I take out my switchblade" - Joker gestures with the one he is so almost lovingly caressing you with - "and I, I tell him, uh, `You, you want me to put a _smile_ on my face? _I'll_ put a _smile_ on my face!` And I do _this_" - Joker mimes slicing his cheeks open with his tongue - "to myself."

The clown giggles, leaning in close to Jonathan again as he ceases stroking his face with the knife, reaching up to stick the blade handle-up into the narrow crevice between where the backseat meets the side of the vehicle.

"And you know what? Not _one_ of them can stand the sight of me! They _leave_ - and the next day _I'm_ ruling the playground, and _they_ are the ones being _torturedddd_." _Lick_.

Joker's grin widens. "Now I'm _always_ smiling - because now _I know the truth_.

"See, I used to think ol' Batsy was a nice challenge, and for a while there Harvey Dent was nothing less than my _hero_ - all it took was a little _push_ to make him _snap_ like a _twig_ - but then I heard about _you_. How you had influenced the creation of the, the _Bat-man_. How you spread _fear_ throughout Gotham. How in the Narrows you had _inspired chaos-suh_." _Lick_.

"You think I wanna _kill_ you." _Giggle_. "I can see it in your eyes." The Joker laughs, cold and harsh, sending thrills of fear and an emotion Crane cannot name sweeping up his spine.

It is a while before the clown regains what little control he has over himself.

"I don't, I don't wanna _kill_ you! What would I do _without_ you? Keep trying to incite chaos when there's no fear to spark it? No - no, no, _no!_ Y', y'see _you_ - _you _truly_ complete. . .me_."

Their noses are almost touching again.

"_So_ - whaddya say you and I get to, uh, _know_ each other a little better, Jonathan? Hmm?" Joker's dark brows twitch enticingly.

Jonathan whimpers as his eyes widen in horror again at what the madman is not at all coyly suggesting - and feels for the first time the sensual heat pulsing from the bulge forming in the fork in the clown's trousers.

Almost frantically licking his lips, Joker slowly unbuttons Crane's shirt, exposing delicate snowy skin and protruding ribs.

And Jonathan knows he won't be able to stop him, even if he tried, for Joker is stronger than he is.

Much stronger.

With fumbling fingers and some quick maneuvering, Joker has his own fly open and Jonathan's pants and boxers down around his ankles in seconds. He hovers lustily over his victim, gloved fingers blindly probing as he continues his monologue.

"Do you _fear me_, Jonathan?" _Giggle_. "'Cause I can't stop thinking about - _Ohhh?_" Joker's dark brows shoot up almost to his hairline in pleasant surprise. "_What's this?_"

Jonathan feels like he's going to throw up, ashamed and horrified at how his body could betray him so easily - but at the same time he is filled with an undeniably sick pleasure as Joker's naughty hand gropes his throbbing erection.

The clown grins again, eyes glinting with predatorily with flaming lust. "You _are_ frightened. And not only are you _scared_ - you're _turned on_ by it! You_ like _being afraid."

Whimpering, Jonathan jerks his head from side to side in frantic denial. Not because he is contradicting the clown - but because _he is not ready to accept the fact that what Joker has said is very much the truth_.

**No!**

The demonic elongated grin grows impossibly wide as Joker grabs Jonathan's wrists tight and slams them into the door above his head, holding him down.

**Scarecrow? Scarecrow, help me!**

Jonathan searches back even into the deepest recesses of his consciousness - even into places he does not like and consequently does not normally go - but his other persona cannot be found.

His mind is strangely. . .empty.

Scarecrow has left Jonathan all alone, right when he needs him the most.

**Scarecrow?! SCARECROW!!!**

And then there is pain.

And pleasure.

And semen.

And blood.

Lots and lots of the entire lot.

Jonathan screams as the Joker enters him, thrusting his cock deep inside.

The clown's neck arches, lifting his chin, his charcoaled brown eyes fluttering shut as he positively _growls_ with lust.

Jonathan's head thrashes from side to side as he struggles and writhes beneath his assailant, desperate to escape the pain as Joker - who can't seem to get enough - forces the intrusion harder.

And Jonathan is drowning in the pressure and the heat and nothing like this has ever happened to him before and still he gets harder the more frightened he becomes and he is swamped and enveloped in fear and _anything_ would be better than this emotional terror so unchecked and no no no no no no. . .

"Hold _still!_" Tightening his grip on Crane's wrists, Joker lunges foreword and sinks his teeth into Jonathan's left ear, causing the doctor to cry out; blood bubbles, welling up around the clown's teeth.

Pearlescent tears flowing down his cheeks, Jonathan abruptly ceases his resistance and shudders from the sudden onset of delicious chills, unable to stop the soft moan of twisted gratification that falls from his lips at the feeling of the Joker's slimy wet tongue as it slithers out to catch the crimson droplets being freed from their bonds inside of his ear.

Joker's pelvic thrusts are hot and hard, almost frantic in his desperate need for panting gasping bliss; muted high-pitched keening noises of arousal convulse Crane's throat, despite himself.

Jonathan _tries_ to go to his so-called "happy place," he really does - but no matter where he ends up he is always back in this exact same situation.

Except in these "fantasies" Joker's progress is much more gentle. Loving, even.

He would find the thought of the _Joker_ "going easy" to be extremely funny if his current situation wasn't so serious.

This is _not_ happening to him.

But it is.

He doesn't want this to occur.

Yet he oh-so desperately _does_.

**What is **_wrong_** with me?**

Joker releases Crane's ear, pushing himself up slightly in order to get a better "angle"; for a moment Jonathan fancies he can see the clown's biceps flexing beneath his coat- and shirtsleeves.

They climax together, one in fear but both in pleasure; Jonathan has inhaled far too much of the clown's rancid - yet strangely sweet to him - breath already and he isn't sure if he can take much more of this and o_hhh yesssssssssssss_. . .

And then it is over, the clown releasing Jonathan's wrists, extracting himself with a final moan and then sitting back on his heels.

But the look in his eyes says he still isn't finished.

What more could he possibly _do_ to Jonathan?

Joker takes up his knife again.

Jonathan is too weak and too tired to even think of resisting - it's been a big night for him - and _he _just doesn't_ care any more_.

Strangely all he wants now is for Joker to hold him.

He doesn't even cry out when the clown makes the first incision - compared to what he has just endured, this is nothing; blood blossoms forth as pallid skin is split like the petals of a delicate flower slowly opening to coyly greet the sun as the lunatic above him begins to methodically carve a single word in sharp jagged lettering right over the left of Jonathan's twin prominent collarbones.

J. . .O. . .K. . .E. . .R. . .

When the name is carved deep enough for him to be satisfied that it will remain permanently etched in Jonathan's body, the Joker licks the blade clean and puts it away; he then pulls out a delicately ominous silver needle and a small spool of black thread. Joker licks the end of the impossibly narrow strand of material and threads the needle successfully on the first try - he's had plenty of practice with his smile-scars after all - and begins to seal the abrasions he has just created in Jonathan's skin, snapping off various lengths of thread as-needed.

The needle dances elegantly, tugging only slightly at the skin through which it is being pulled, in-out, in-out - quite like a spider's legs gracefully weaving a beautiful web of fragile-yet-impossibly-strong silk; not one wince of pain twists Jonathan's features - though he _is_ more than slightly relieved when the clown nips off the final length of sewing string, just where the last stitch meets the right-hand "leg" of the "R."

Nodding in satisfaction at his gruesome handiwork, Joker stows the needle and thread within his coat pocket once again (he has all manner of things in his coat pockets) and comes up with a pure white handkerchief - which reminds Jonathan with a sickening jolt of his own virginity, stolen by the homicidal clown above him. Joker cleans the surgical site - then reaches down and oh-so gently wipes away the excess semen and blood from Crane's genitals, giving the hankie an experimental lick before stowing it away again: he seems to like the taste, tongue running over his lips, searching just in case more of the sickeningly delicious mixture - none of which he wishes to let "get away from him" - might have gotten on them.

"_There_," Joker says, somewhat triumphantly, ripping the tape from Crane's mouth, who gasps and sobs freely in a perverse blend of relief and disappointment - "you're _my_ bitch now, _Jon-a-than_."

Crane is disturbingly thrilled to no end at these words.

Joker re-zips his fly and rearranges Jonathan's clothes so that they cover him properly once more. Something twists deep inside Joker as he realizes Jonathan is still crying; he thinks it to be sick pleasure - and immediately decides to act upon it.

"_Oh_, shush-shush-shush-shush-shush," the clown says in a false-soothing tone, stroking the tears away from the doctor's cheeks with the backs of palsied fingers - and then lifts him up by the lapels of his suit jacket and slams his back up against the car door; there is a sickening _crack!_ and a whisper of pain as the back of Jonathan's head connects with the window, a thin trail of blood leaking out down over the glass from his injured cranium - Crane is remarkably still conscious.

Filled with wonder, Jonathan stares deeply into Joker's manic brown eyes.

Their noses are almost touching again.

Jonathan will never know what made him do it - but whatever it is has already sealed their fate.

He reaches up and takes Joker's face in his soft feminine hands and captures those infamous scarred lips with his own.

The Clown Prince of Crime freezes in shock.

No one has ever invaded _his_ personal space like that - naturally it's always the other way 'round (but how far he'd gotten with Jonathan is admittedly the farthest he's ever gone before). No one has ever caressed his scars as Jonathan is doing now - thumbs torturously-soft light feathers fluttering over the marred skin. No one has ever touched him like this. No one has ever shown him such gentleness in all his life.

Ever.

What's even more amazing is the fact that Jonathan is reacting this way toward the very man who has just raped him.

And the Joker hasn't a clue on how to respond.

But he is _not_ frightened, oh no, no, _no_ - he is merely surprised. Unnerved.

Now at last it is Jonathan's turn to be in control.

His mouth open wider, kissing deeper as the clown finally takes the gesture for what it is. Jonathan's tongue probes curiously, feeling the roof of Joker's mouth, the decaying teeth, the marred insides of his cheeks and the fishing line that is so desperately holding them together.

Hungry desire grips Joker again as his tongue intertwines with Jonathan's.

They explore each other, devour each other, marveling at the different textures and tastes possessed by each other's mouths - the Joker's rough and souring, Jonathan's smooth and unbearably sweet.

They separate slowly, unwillingly, lips trembling, lingering.

For they know that with the breaking of this first sweet kiss comes a new understanding: though the Joker may lord over all other matters - especially ruling Gotham as the city's top criminal - the terms by which they will share there intimacy will always belong to Jonathan.

Sometimes lustfully feverish, yet always gentle and loving.

Just the way he will come to like it.

"So be it." Joker accepts the unspoken agreement as his dominant brown eyes stare deep into Jonathan's recessive blue.

When his new partner speaks, his voice is weak - yet his words are very characteristic of his doctorly self. "I of course assume that bringing me to this particular location just to take advantage of me is merely an ulterior motive?"

Joker runs his tongue over his lips again in frantic excitement - to his utmost delight, the taste of peppermint from Jonathan's soft lips still lingers there. "The, the _manager_ of this, this uh, _bank_ is competing with the, the _Penguin_" - Joker sneered the name - "and I've found that I'm a. . ." - his voice rises up a few octaves - "little" - he clears his throat sardonically - "_low_ on, uh, _chaos funds-suh_." _Lick_.

Crane cocks an eyebrow, the old familiar feeling of duality buzzing just beneath the surface of his skin. "I assume this man may need. . ._convincing_ to see _our_ side of the story?"

"And I wanted only the best - after myself, of course - as, uh, _backup-puh_." Joker's smile is almost affectionate.

A chill had run through him when Crane had said "our."

Jonathan smiles back and draws from within the depths of his suit jacket the all-too familiar livestock-feed sack with its ragged eyeholes and grotesque black mouth-stitching, activating the respirator inside with an ominous _click-click-hiss_ before pulling the burlap down over his head.

And for an instant Scarecrow is back - his presence being what has suppressed those _special_ desires in Jonathan in the first place because of the cornfield being's overall lack of interest in sex - almost-but-not-quite matching the Joker grin-for-grin, his voice a hoarse rasping echo of Crane's.

"_Let's kick ass_."

* * *

_Another cliffy! Don't you just LOVE me? Hahaha_

_Sorry I didn't warn you guys about the rape'n shtuff, but I couldn't resist being a naughty little bitch for once - and if you don't like it, well, then you can just FUCK OFF BITCH because you don't know what's sexy and what isn't. And heterosex is NOT sexy._

_*giggle* Joker's like "I used to have a crush on Batman and then Two-Face, but then I heard about you and realized you inspire all that I stand for - so LET'S FUCK! And if you don't submit yourself willingly, I'll rape you! And then I'll carve my name into your chest like an extra-permanent tattoo and claim you as my bitch! So TAKE THAT!" Lovely._


	3. Better Class Of Robbery

_Author's Note: *Relieved but saddened sigh* And so we come to the final chapter of "I Was Raped By A Homicidal Clown - And I Liked I-it!" (Sorry, was playing with Katy Perry's "I Kissed A Girl" there.) This picks up right where chapter two left off - and we will be touring through Lefty's "you" POV for the remainder of our stay here at the Hotel California (sorry, I just ate an ice cream sandwich and now I'm kinda hyper)! The bank manager is the same one from the bank heist that's the opening scene in _TDK_, and the incident that he refers to when speaking to the Joker is also that bank heist and the bank in here is that same bank, blah, blah, blah (though I _did_ mess with its location just a wee bit). Also play around with _TDK_ lines again - and of course the little paragraph where Joker's like "All you care about is -" is a direct quote from the movie._

* * *

Still standing in the wet grass beneath the little tree that provides no real protection from the endless precipitation - it is _still_ raining - you tremble in shock at what you have just witnessed.

And for the first time while performing your fearlessness-based occupation you are utterly terrified.

From your "vantage point" the front seats of the vehicle and the Joker's purple trench coat had mercifully obscured the masculine genitalia involved in the actual act of sexual assault - and thankfully you had not been able to hear them over the pounding rain - but for the remainder of your life there are some sights that will be forever lodged in your cursed photographic memory: Crane thrashing and writhing beneath the Joker as he was raped, the clown sinking his teeth into the doctor's ear, the knife splitting Crane's flesh as that terrible name - reasonably feared by all (though you aren't exactly sure of the Bat's feelings toward the ironic moniker as you had never actually gotten the chance to ask his opinion on it, and _that_ close of an encounter is one you would rather avoid, especially as it would probably result in your injury and/or arrest anyway) - was carved into his skin.

Who _could_ forget something like that?

And then of course there was the kiss.

Had the doctor gone _psycho?!!!_ (Not to say that based on what you had heard about what he did to his patients meant that you had ever thought he wasn't at all _cracked_.) He had just been robbed of his sexual purity against his will - and then he goes and _kisses_ the guy who forced the intercourse upon him in the first place!

Who _does_ that, honestly?

Apparently. . .Jonathan Crane.

And you are sure that without a doubt if their situations - both physical and emotional - in this had been reversed, the Joker would have reacted the very same way.

Understandably, you find this thought to be more than slightly disturbing.

And then the left rear door of the Lincoln opens and a pair of purple-trousered legs swing out and the purple dress-shoed feet attached to them by purple-socked ankles hit the ground: Joker steps out into the deluge. Head bowed to help prevent the rain from washing the beloved-by-some-yet-feared-by-most greasy makeup from his face, the clown - hands in pockets - begins to skip psychotically across the parking lot, watching with obvious fascination the kicking movements of his feet as his legs swing out in front of him and the friction of the soles of his shoes against the tar propels him forward.

You get the feeling that he is humming in a tuneless manner to himself, though the distance and the heavy barrage of sky-water obscures your ability to determine whether he is actually doing so.

He doesn't even turn around when the still-burlap-masked Crane tumbles loosely out of the backseat after him and hits the ground with a dull wet thud. (Unbeknownst to you - you have not yet been informed of the switch that occurs within the doctor's mind, though you will quickly come to recognize the warning signs - he is now once again the real Dr. Jonathan Crane and not the Scarecrow.) He lays there on the pavement, trembling.

You move to help him - and that is when you realize that while you were engaged in your voyeuristic practices your work boots sank about two inches into the gooey swamp that was once a quaint little patch of grass with a few small trees scattered about inside it for decoration (though they have obviously failed in their underlying purpose of the prevention of the grass patch from flooding). Cursing the weather viciously and grimacing in disgust, you shove your handgun into a special pocket on the inside of your jacket and yank your boots free of the muck - thankfully your soggy-socked feet take your shoes with them instead of leaving them behind in the mud - and quickly proceed to Crane's side, dropping to one knee as you reach out and oh-so gently touch his shoulder in friendly, understandably concern -

He flinches violently as though you had struck him and scrambles back up against the car, cringing away from your close presence; it occurs to you that, given what he had just endured, he may momentarily be experiencing extreme sensitivity and dislike to human touch - and make a show of slowly scuffling backward a foot or so to give him a bit more personal space.

Regarding you warily as if to ensure that you don't come any closer, he gingerly rises to his feet, using the car door for support - you stand slowly with him, hands held out slightly and ready to catch him should he begin to collapse - and then he pushes the door shut with his body and leans against it for a moment, continuing to shake visibly; abruptly - seeming to have come to a determined decision - he shoves himself off the vehicle and uses his momentum to hobble quickly after the Joker.

You gaze pityingly after him for a moment, then pop up the trunk of the car and extract a large maroon duffle bag (you always follow orders to a "T") from its slightly filthy interior - dust, dirt and a few other questionable substances have accumulated over the years from lack of proper care - throw the bag over your shoulder and slam the trunk lid down with a _bang!_ before the water can turn the grime to mud, not bothering to manually lock the doors. The Town Car - which upon buying so long ago (it was your first vehicle) you had named Herbie after the one in that old race car movie - flashes its headlights at you and emits a high-pitched, surprisingly cheerful _beep-beep!_; you give the vehicle a completely freaked-out stare before you throw yourself into a brisk jog in order to catch up with your employers (for you rightly assume that you will now be working for Crane as well - great, you are being _shared_ - and will not be at the sole beck-and-call of the Joker).

By this point the clown has switched to an unhurried walk; you slow down to match his pace as you meet up with Crane. The doctor maintains a few feet of respecting-yet-fearful distance behind the Joker, flanking the anti-comedian on his left; you mirror him on the clown's right and together the three of you cross the pavement, chins tucked almost into your chests under the weight of the weather.

Two other vehicles are parallel-parked one beside the other just to the right of the bank entrance, both sporting Herbie's dark coloration: a sleek glossy Cadillac - infamous tail-fins included - and an SUV.

One for the probably consistently-chauffeured bank manager, one for the collective "hired equipment" - and as it should be it is mutually obvious by all who see them as to whom each automobile belongs.

A lone thug stands under the long wide overhang above the large glass double-doors that comprise the bank's front entrance. Sporting a thin tank top with his work boots and jeans, he's a scrawny bald little fellow - but his multiple facial piercings and tattoos make more than an attempt at an intimidating appearance despite his just-under-five-foot stature. His mouth is set - his bulbous green eyes attempting to narrow in suspicion with minimal success - and his thin arms are crossed challengingly over his weak chest. He looks to be in his late twenties.

The three of you meet him just underneath the overhang and stand there dripping onto the limited concrete walkway serving as a perimeter for the building.

He cocks one thin pointy eyebrow - arched sharply upward in the middle like a "v" - as he gives you and your little entourage a quick skeptical once-over while managing to refrain from revealing his at the least wariness at having the Joker in such close proximity.

"No more transactions will occur - Gotham Fifth's closed for the night." The guard's Australian accent is terribly thick.

And he's certainly determined, you'll give him that.

But then without warning Crane lunges forward and his jacket sleeve expels with a quiet _whuff!_ a dose of his potent fear toxin full in the man's face.

The effects are almost instantaneous.

The thug's frog-like eyes bulge out even more in horror; he trips as he tries to back away and falls to the ground, twitching and screaming and crying as he is enveloped by whatever great terror he is seeing.

And then the Joker slams Crane up against the wall and begins to choke him, the weaker man's finger's prying desperately at the hand wrapped around his neck as strange gurgling noises emerge from his rapidly-closing airways.

"Now, I will not make you work _for_ me, _Jon-a-than_" - _lick_ - "but you _will_ obtain my permission before you strike out against, against those who, uh, _resist_ us - is that understood?" _Lick_.

Crane barely manages to nod - and collapses to his hands and knees on the ground following his release. Weak pitiful sobbing noises can be heard through the burlap.

"_Oh_, shush-shush-shush-shush-shush." Joker's tone of voice makes no true attempt at soothing Crane as he hoists the doctor to his feet by the tops of his arms and allows him to lean against him for a moment - though once Crane regains his balance Joker gently shrugs him off and starts toward the door.

He then suddenly pauses in mid-step - "_Oh_" - and looks back over his shoulder at the guard, who is still whimpering and convulsing on the ground.

"Bring - bring, uh, _that_." He nods at the quivering skeleton.

And then he kicks the door on the right open with a _bang!_ and strides calmly through the opening in that hunch-shouldered, off-kilter gait that is just one of the many strange traits that comprise his ultimate psychosis, Crane scurrying timidly after him like a little puppy who still loves his master even after he's been beaten by him mercilessly several times.

You grab the collar and the back of Frog-man's jacket with both hands and drag him into the bank after them.

The main lobby is quite spacious, with a high flat ceiling and marble-tiled floor. Off to your right, a long counter runs nearly the full length of the room. In the back of the chamber there are several doorways, most likely leading off to smaller rooms and offices where various records and files are kept - and of course one of these portals _must_ lead to the vaults. The area is poorly lit, the bars of rowed electrical bulbs on the ceiling nearly burnt out from frequent use.

Four burly thugs dressed all in black stand - with handguns in holsters on their hips - in the middle of the room; a tall lean man sporting a brown corduroy suit that almost perfectly matches his wispy brown hair resides in their center, hands in his pockets, regarding the three - no, it's _four_ now - of you mistrustingly.

If at one point the Penguin had ever offered classes that actually taught students how to disdainfully "look down one's nose" at someone, then this dear old chap must have _definitely_ taken them.

The man seems strangely familiar to you - but you can't remember where you've seen him before.

The bank manager's eyes narrow as you and your companions cease crossing the floor with about twelve feet of space separating the two parties.

"What do _you_ want?" he asks rudely, seeming to be entirely unaffected by the Joker's presence - though you notice the four henchmen flanking him have begun to tremble, just slightly.

Joker ignores him.

"_So_. . .this is how you, uh, _greet_ potential customers?" the clown sneers, signaling to you with one hand; you drag Froggy forward again - "AHHH! Get them out, get them out! _They're crawling under my skin, damn you_ - GET THEM OU-HOU-HOUT!" - and drop him at the supervisor's feet before retreating back behind the Joker's right again.

The banker's eyes widen as he turns very pale and goggles down at the - now silent - fallen doorman. His voice trembles slightly when he speaks.

"What have you _done_ to him?"

Crane's head cocks to one side inquisitively, almost like a fucking _bird_; you notice for the first time that in these dimly-lit surroundings his eyes are nothing more than eerie black pits sunken into the mask - and this absolutely unnerves you to no end.

You had sensed a sort of _change_ in the doctor from the moment you saw him enter the lobby: his posture had straightened - not as _skittish_, not as cowering - and there had been a slight swagger in his step, his movements looser, more free-flowing than what they previously were (in fact, you have begun to recognize the signs of _the change_ without even realizing it yet).

Scarecrow has taken over.

"_If I am not mistaken_," a rasping voice muffled by burlap says pleasantly, "_I have detected the faintest quiver of _fear_ radiating from your person - does this emotion ring true?_"

Still staring down at Frog-man, the entrepreneur does not answer.

The now-leering Scarecrow is practically giggling.

"_You seem a little. . ._unsure_ - shall we make certain of the answer to this most fascinating enigma?_"

The bank manager's eyes snap up to glare at the masked creature before him; it appears a definite change in attitude has taken place within the miser.

"_We_ are not _intimidated_ by _thugs_," he says coolly.

Scarecrow hisses at what he has apparently taken as an insult and steps forward - and abruptly his chest collides with the Joker's arm, suddenly flung wide to prevent the attack the clown knew would be coming. The two stare each other down for a moment - Joker's earlier warning perhaps running through the doctor's mind - before Scarecrow backs off.

His forced smile impossibly wide, Joker turns back to the manager and claps his gloved hands together in a business-like manner.

"We would like to make a. . ." - his voice heightens in pitch - "_small_" - he holds his thumb and forefinger about an inch apart before he clears his throat - "withdrawal."

Quiet disbelieving laughter sweeps through the hired muscle - and you immediately comprehend how they find this to be so funny.

The _Joker_ making a "small withdrawal"?

Oh, _come on!_

But the bank manager is apparently still suspicious, his brow furrowing in what appears to be not only confusion but _annoyance_.

"Why did you request _my_ specific services when I had previously informed you that after the _incident_ nearly half a year ago - in which, I might add, I was nearly _killed_ - you are no longer welcome here?"

He doesn't even look pleased that his business was chosen over the competition - he obviously just wants the Joker out of his hair. And fast.

"Be-because, y'see, _I. . .have. . .no. . .rules_ - and because it doesn't go _according to plan_." The clown makes air quotes with his fingers around these three final words of wisdom.

Scarecrow emits a strange sort of choking noise - he is apparently having a hard time trying not to giggle.

The supervisor hesitates, obviously considering whether giving even _this_ maniac a fair amount of cash is worth the small amount of time it would take to do so - and is evidently so stupid and self-centered that he does not recognize the danger in deciding that it isn't.

"I'm sorry, I cannot comply with -"

But before he can finish the Joker is standing toe-to-toe right in front of him, one hand gripping the back of his neck as the dreaded switchblade trembles near his quivering lips in the other.

"All you care about is _money_. This town deserves a better class of criminal - and _I'm_ gonna give it to 'em. Tell your men they work for _me_ now. This is _my_ city."

The bank manager swallows hard, and, evidently seeing no alternative option, weakly calls out, "Do what he says, boys," to the men at his sides - who seem to have frozen in shock because the clown is the only one who has yet moved.

Joker nods pensively in satisfaction at the albeit grudging cooperation.

"Good. _Now_" - the clown removes his hand from the banker's neck, pulls a small notepad and pen from his coat pocket, which you catch reflexively when he tosses them to you without looking round - "let's have that combination."

You goggle stupidly down at the writing equipment in your hands as if you are not quite sure as to exactly how the implements came to be there - then hurriedly flip open the notepad, click the pen on and scribble frantically as the entrepreneur begins to rattle off numbers at lightning speed in a voice that has risen to nearly a squeak from terror.

After quite the lengthy list he is finally finished, and without turning 'round the Joker inquires:

"You, uh, get that. . .Lefty?" He sounds as if he is unsure if he has correctly remembered your pseudonym.

"Got it." You click the pen to its non-writable position and stow it in your pocket; if the clown _really_ wanted it back he would've asked for it - _or_ taken it from you himself (an encounter in which you would _not_ wish to participate, especially given what he had just done to Crane).

A soft gasp of surprise entices you to look up.

The bank manager is staring at you with impossibly wide eyes, an expression that can only be described as sudden recognition on his visage. Then his facial muscles relax despite the circumstances - and his thin pallid lips curve darkly into an incredibly sick smile.

"Hello, _Vyacheslav_."

And that is when you feel yourself pale as it dawns upon you where you've seen him before - and then your mind takes you to a place you'd rather not go.

The eyes boring into you from the outer side of the high fence bordering the baseball field behind the high school. The after-practice "talks." The threats. The stalking. The insults. The touching. The beating. The kissing. The cutting. The biting. The rape. . .

"Ohhh - _that's right_." Grinning maliciously, Joker glances from you to the banker and back again. "He" - nods at the entrepreneur - "_did_ tell me you two, uh, _knew_ each other - you two must go _way_ back, hunh?" _Lick_.

You are too shaken to respond.

How could you have possibly forgotten this?

Why did the sight of Joker assaulting Crane not trigger the memory?

Perhaps because _their_ bonding was partly done out of an emotion not unlike love - and _yours_ had been far from that.

_Click-click_ goes the clown's tongue, snapping you away from the endless questions spinning 'round your head like so many flies.

"Let's, uh, _hop to it_ there, uh, Lefty." Joker tightens his regained grip on the manager's neck and fear returns to the latter's features.

You flinch, suddenly recalling your purpose, and start off to your other left, voicing your hunch without bothering to glance back over your shoulder.

"Behind the teller's cage, right?"

"Yes." The banker's voice has risen to a high whimper once again.

Gripping the shoulder strap of your apparently Ron-Weasley-sweater-inspired duffel bag tightly, you vault almost gracefully over the counter and open the single door behind it, quickly descend the following metal staircase, go through another doorway, and come face-to-face (well, face-to-steel door) with a large bank vault.

Squinting down at your customarily messy scrawl - which Sandy will bitch about on occasion - you enter what must be the most complicated code anyone could ever dream up into the small calculator-buttoned-like box on the door, pocket the notepad, and, after the door device beeps once and the little bar across its top lights up a welcome green, you spin the large wheel on-its-left-but-your-right and open the door.

Your jaw drops as you regard what could possibly be the biggest mound of cash you have ever seen in your entire life - even larger than the ones you had glimpsed when the Penguin was engaging in a most sizeable transfer (and you had seen _plenty_ of those).

After a moment you realize you have been standing there gawking at a pile of money as if it were a pile of naked guys - no, wait, you mean _girls_ - you then blink, shut your mouth, enter the vault, unzip the duffel bag and begin shoving large handfuls of bundled dollar bills into it.

When you have stuffed the bag with more Ben Franklin's than it can possibly stand to hold, you re-zip it with much difficulty and heft it over your shoulder - feeling like the lowest of the lowest pack mules in the herd - and stagger out of the vault, back and shoulder muscles straining under the weight, praying to whatever you've decided to believe in that week that you won't fall over and/or the seams of the bag won't rip as you slowly ascend the stairs.

"This is _really_ heavy," you mutter - and you finally reach the top of the stairwell before you realize that you have unintentionally quoted _Spider-man 2_.

Smiling grimly to yourself, you lurch back out into the area behind the teller's cage -

And into a shouting match between the banker's thugs that is so loud, the long windows on the far wall are trembling with the force of the unbelievable amount of sound four men are able to produce (Froggy doesn't count because he's still lying - now supposedly unconscious - on the floor). They are literally in each other's now red and sweaty faces, guns drawn, bellowing unintelligibly - no one else seems to have moved.

A sudden high-pitched whistle cuts through the air; silence flattens the room like a thousand-ton lead weight.

Scarecrow removes two fingers from beneath his mask and calmly addresses the seething quartet.

"_May I remind you that if you _do_ choose to fire upon us_" - (so _that _is what all the screaming was about) - "_you will be _obliterating _the potential for some of the _wealthiest _days of your lives_."

The guards immediately stow their weapons back where they belong, as if afraid to press their luck further - and with good reason, as they have now seen by Frog-man what Scarecrow's toxin is capable of.

"Ah - _there_ you are," Joker says, smiling slightly at the sight of the bulging duffel bag; you shove it across the counter, where it drops to the floor on the other side, before again vaulting over the "cage" after it. You crouch down and grip the duffel's shoulder strap once more -

Only to freeze in shock as without a word the Joker turns his horribly grinning face to the bank manager, pivots the switchblade into the entrepreneur's mouth, and flicks his wrist, snuffing the man's life out like a candle; wide-eyed, the banker gurgles blood, body swaying unsteadily on its feet for a moment after the Joker has released it - then folds in on itself as it crumples to the floor.

The clown then calmly licks the blade and puts it away (unbeknownst to you once again, Joker will later tell Crane that _his_ blood tastes _much_ better than the supervisor's did).

You are amazed that you have not begun to shake at the sight of the abrupt and careless murder - maybe this new job is "toughening you up" after all.

"We'll be, uh, _in touch_ with you, uh, _di-rect-ly_. Here's. . .my. . .card." With that, Joker holds up a playing card with a joker as its face value for the guards to see, places it on the lapel of the banker's suit jacket, and - humming tunelessly once again - slowly backs out the still-open door; together you and Scarecrow follow him -

And once you are outside that strange demeanor that had come over Crane while he was in the bank is gone, and he collapses back against the side of the building, shaking visibly once more.

The Joker sighs expressionlessly, sweeps Crane up into his arms - with a surprised "Eeep!" from the doctor - and carries him across the parking lot to your Lincoln with not even the faintest wistful glance at the pair of closer vehicles.

Pulling your UPS ballcap into place - _will the rain _ever_ stop?_ - you hurry after them, pulling the left rear door open for the clown; he lowers Crane into the backseat and scrambles in after him. You shut the door and then settle down into the old familiar driver's seat once more, start up the Town Car and pull out into the street, and inquire as pleasantly as you are able to manage:

"Where to?"

You throw a glance in the rearview mirror at your passengers - and nearly wreck Herbie when Crane pulls off the burlap sack and drops it in his lap.

A large violet welt has swollen beneath his left eye and a thin reddish-black scar nearly divides the corresponding ear in half; ghastly reddish-purple bruises cover his neck, his left cheek, and more than likely his genitals and inner thighs - all from the Joker's assaults.

It is only the warning blast from a semi that is a member of the oncoming traffic that saves you from wrapping Herbie around it like an all-too enthusiastic lover; you yelp in alarm and quickly swerve back into your lane. Neither of your bosses seems to have been affected from this near-brushing of Death's shoulder's.

Crane heaves a tired sigh.

"We'll go to my apartment."

He then lays his head down on the Joker's shoulder, clutching the homicidal maniac's coat lapels with a desperate strength as he begins to cry.

"_Ssh_. . .I'm here. . ._Ssh_. . ." and this time Joker's soothing words appear genuine as he wraps his arms around Crane and rocks him gently, stroking his hair and planting a single soft kiss on his forehead, murmuring quiet words of what almost could be described as love to him as he rests his cheek against the crown of the doctor's head and closes his eyes.

"Just relax, Jonathan. . .I'm here. . ." _Lick_.

FINALLY "THE END"

* * *

_Whaddya think? Personally think this is the most in-character "slash Joker" I've written yet - except for my little signature angsty-romantic piece at the end there, which kinda ruins that concept. Ah, well. On the bright side - now we know why Lefty's such a FRUITCAKE! And as for if the bank manager had a "thing" going on with the Fantastic Frog-man!, I'll let you decide (though I'm leaning toward FUCK YES!)._


End file.
